


Ashes to Ashes

by Tyelca (TreasureHunter)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And For Frodo, Anfauglith, Angband, Barad-dur, Eagles, End of First Age, End of Third Age, Fall Of Morgoth, Fall Of Sauron, Fanart, For The Silmarils, Gandalf On A Mission, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, Landscape Description, POV Gandalf, Post-War of Wrath, Post-War of the Ring, TRSB19, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2019, based on fanart, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/Tyelca
Summary: Through the ashes of one battlefield to the next, Olórin, later known as Gandalf, has a mission.





	1. The First Age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Junaril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junaril/gifts).

> Written for the lovely [Junaril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junaril/pseuds/junaril) as part of the TRSB19 exchange. She made the amazing artworks at the beginning of both chapters, so all kudos to her!

The War of Wrath has ended. Flanked by Maedhros and Maglor in a temporary uneasy alliance, Olórin stands on the crest of a low hill, looking out over the now irreversibly damaged plains of Anfauglith. Underneath an ever-growing blanket of ash that gently falls from the low-hanging smoke clouds like rain, the lands are torn. Craters with jagged edges penetrate the ground and open up into the fiery liquids below, setting the land alight with a terrible yellow glow that glints off the Fëanorians’ tarnished armour.

Olórin takes a deep breath he does not need and wishes he hadn’t. In the wake of Morgoth’s defeat, all his servants were either slain or had fled and as a result the air is hot with the heavy scent of decay. The plain is stacked with corpses that slowly disappear underneath the ash. Most bodies are creatures of darkness, the only remains of Morgoth’s vast armies, created through witchery and torture.

Every now and again, but still with sickening frequency, a glint of heavy dwarven armour or a glimpse of red human blood catches his eye. The proud banners of elvenmake, once bright in colour, are now torn and faded to pale impressions of their former splendour. They hang still in the air, draped over their standards and irregularly spread over the battlefield like a dead man’s forest. They keep an undiscriminating watch over the dead below, while the ash that slowly but surely drifts down from the sky obliterates the no man’s land and turns it into a graveyard.

Beside him, it is Maglor who makes the first move by stepping forward, going downhill. His boot sinks ankle-deep in the ash and he takes a few moments to ascertain his footing. On Olórin’s other side, Maedhros follows his brother’s example and just like that, it seems they are going. Olórin has no choice but to follow their example.

He does not want to be here, when the War has been won and the Enemy defeated, on a mission accompanied by two shaky allies that will most certainly turn into adversaries upon reaching their destination. But it has to be done and Olórin intends to do it right, and nothing would have deterred the Fëanorians from joining him. They were waiting for him, alone at the edge of the encampment further south, where the skies also weep ash like they do everywhere in Beleriand but where the lands still belong to the living.

The Anfauglith, layered with countless bodies and the end of all living things, have entered a reality of their own, surreal and separate, belonging to the dead.

For now Olórin is glad for their company, for they are able warriors and accustomed to Morgoth’s cruelty; many of the Eldar that came over from Valinor had trouble accepting the daily horrors that come with fighting the Enemy. No stories, no matter how well-told, are adequate preparation for the harsh reality of war.

He lifts his eyes to the three black, jagged peaks on the other side of the plane during the trek down. Not so long ago the Thangorodrim stood proudly, a towering symbol of Morgoth’s power and the outer walls of an impenetrable fortress. Even now, after Morgoth’s defeat, it remains unconquered. It is broken by the fall of the great black dragon, but not destroyed. The black rock still emanates a menace and though the tall spires have crumbled down, the shadow of dread still surrounds them. That is their destination.

Olórin, in a strange indirect way he himself does not completely understand, mourns the fall of fortress. Like so many other things in Beleriand, it has been irreparably lost and in this case, Morgoth is not responsible. The Thangorodrim are but the latest in the path of annihilation that swept around the entire continent as the War of Wrath went on. Beleriand, the proud backdrop of so many grand tales, has changed into a wasteland that would not - and could not - recover.

Like him, Maedhros and Maglor have no horses. The animals would only be a burden once they inevitably strain their ankles, and with these conditions Olórin doubts riding animals would faster than walking.

No noise accompanies their movements as the blanket of ash dampens every sound. By the time they’ve made it downhill Olorin’s cloak is the same indescribable shade as the rest of the land. The same is true for Maedhros’ and Maglor’s clothing. Nevertheless, the three of them carry on and enter the plains proper.

Olórin averts his eyes from the carpet of corpses that he tries to avoid stepping on. The Fëanorians have no such inhibitions: they let their eyes roam over the decay without any visible reaction and Olórin hears the nauseating squelching sounds as they walk over the bodies of orcs, dwarfs, men and elves alike.

The first time it happens, Olórin requests they respect the dead with a vehemence he cannot quite bring himself to feel. He hadn’t known any of them, after all. Maedhros stops just ahead of him, makes half a turn, and doesn’t blink once as he stares in Olórin’s eyes with a vaguely uncomprehending look.

“They are dead,” he says slowly, enunciating clearly as if talking to a particularly dense child. “It doesn’t matter who or what they were. There’s nothing of them left.”

“Just empty shells, discarded now they’ve outlived their use,” Maglor clarifies, and Olórin doesn’t know whether that is meant as reassurance or as a threat.

After that they don’t speak anymore as they continue their march over the plain. The ash still falls from the sky, slowing their progress and obscuring the surroundings.

* * *

For what Olórin estimates as hours, they walk in silence over the greatest battlefield Arda has ever seen. No sunlight penetrates through the thick cover of clouds and the passage of time is difficult to guess. The molten fire that shines through the cracks in the earth illuminates everything with a pulsing, tarnished golden glow.

Olórin quickly learns to ignore the way the ground suddenly falls and rises as he too ends up climbing over loose limbs.

In the distance, the broken peaks of Thangorodrim loom, but they are still multiple days journeying by foot away. Olórin thinks about rest, but he does not want to stay any longer than necessary. The Fëanorians, thin and hard from a life in the wild, do not give any sign of tiredness or hunger. In single file they trudge through the snow-like ash and do not speak. Olórin is uncomfortable in their notorious presence, yet he thinks he would be even less at ease were he alone with only the dead to keep him company.

There is something sinister about the heavy silence around them that seems to steal their voices right out of their mouths. In it, Olórin hears the clamours of war echo and he is unsure whether they come from the past or his mind. He has the uneasy sense that he should not be here, in this cursed place where not very long ago countless lives were lost.

Where earlier the ash fell as if in a downpour, now it has cleared to what could only be called a calm downpour, even though the storm clouds seem as dark and endless as ever.

The fields are now completely covered in dirty off-white, hiding all desolation underneath a deceptively smooth surface. It is quiet, though. The three of them excepted, nothing moves.

Olórin is about to break the unnerving stillness with an offhand comment on the distance yet to cover, when suddenly Maglor, who walks in front of him, holds still. Immediately Maedhros is at his side, sword drawn in one hand and shield attached to the stump of the other, raised.

“What is it?” he whispers in a language not spoken on this side of the Sea. Behind them, Olórin has drawn his own weapon and waits.

Maglor does not answer immediately but over his shoulder Olórin follows his gaze. Just a speck on the horizon, almost at the fallen gates of Angband itself, something rises out of the monotone landscape. It does not move or change; it has just only gotten into view as they crested another crater edge.

Lit from below, a crooked, polished peak shimmers in the yellow light, casting shadows in all directions. Nevertheless, even dusted with ash its reflection is blinding. It is no rock or natural outcropping of the mountain, but something handcrafted, despite its immense size. From this distance, it is yet unclear what exactly it represents, but Olórin has his suspicions. He remembers what the Anfauglith looked like prior to the last battle, and he is certain the two Fëanorians do too. And there aren’t many other things it could be…

Olórin is still staring when Maglor silently murmurs “It is there,” to his brother. For all the truces in the world Olórin doesn’t think he is supposed to hear this, nor Maedhros’ terse reply of “I know. I can sense the place.”

Without a further word or look around the two move on, walking with renewed speed and determination and Olórin follows. Any sense of time vanishes as they continue their march through what Maedhros has morbidly termed Firinandë, Dead Man’s Vale, but, slowly, Angband and the object grow larger as they get closer.

By now no other colour than beige-grey can be seen. They are all three coated in it and the thick layer makes the already uneven ground treacherous and difficult to traverse. What little sense of time Olórin has left has well and truly deserted him when they finally reach the base of the object, scarce miles before Angand’s broken but still-closed gate.

Up close, it is nigh impossible to see the top, which is again bend in strange shapes. The circumference is immense and the whole things is a bright gold colour, only slightly dimmed by the layer of ash covering it.

“Gilded steel,” Maglor concludes after a short inspection. “Pretentious, empty and arrogant,” he adds under his breath.

“Yet clearly craftsmanship,” Maedhros comments as his fingers glide over the cool metal.

Maglor offers a curt nod. “Must be Sauron’s; he’s the only one capable of coming up with such debauchery while maintaining a semblance of competence.” The brothers share a grin, as if it were a joke only they understand.

Olórin looks past the peak, to the east, where, as he suspected, another gilded mountain rises up. From where he stands he looks against a pointed chin and a strong jawline, and when he looks up he now clearly recognizes the object as the outstretched arm and open palm of a gigantic statue. Which means…

“I believe we are standing in Morgoth’s armpit,” Olórin announces. This is enough to efficiently and effectively cut short the argument the Fëanorians seem to be engaged in.

Maglor blinks a few times, looks up, and nods. “So it would seem.”

Maedhros meanwhile has spotted the head further away. “It is even larger that it looked from above,” he mutters to himself. Maglor puts a hand on his shoulder in a silent show of comfort. “It’s fallen now,” he says simply.

Maedhros makes a noise that could be construed as an agreement. “Bastard had to have his big monument.”

Morgoth had fallen somewhere near here; the statue collapsed when his body hit the earth, his soul already taken to the Circle of Doom for judgement. This also means that their alliance is almost at an end. Olórin finds himself regretting that; despite the dominating silence and the knowledge of the horrors the kinslayers had wrought, they’d been surprisingly solid company. They’d pulled him upright many times after he’d stumbled, having misplaced his feet on the treacherous, uneven earth or stumbled over a hidden carcass.

They spread out, each searching the area for traces of Morgoth’s body. Tacit agreement has lead to this arrangement: there doesn’t need to be a fight yet. Olórin is unsure whether this means he’ll have to revert to subterfuge, but then again, the moment he stops searching and returns to the encampment, they will know he’s found it.

Again, a deep silence descends. Olórin is acutely aware of not only the positions and movements of the Fëanorian brothers, but also of the looming shadow of the Thangorodrim. Searching for a body is harder than it should be, partly because everything is covered with at least a foot of ash and partly because there are so many bodies. Olórin searches around the gilded arm in a wider and wider circumference. Here, so close to the Enemy’s base, most corpses belong to orcs and goblins and other creatures of darkness, and to Olórin’s eye they all look the same.

In the end he, Maedhros and Maglor all end up at the enormous spikes that make up the crown of Morgoth’s statue.

“It must be here somewhere,” he says and crosses eyes with the eldest Fëanorian. They all know what that means. Maedhros just nods and bends over, using the shield attached to his stump as a makeshift shovel to reach the earth. It bumps. Maedhros stills for just a moment, crosses eyes with his brother, and then carefully scrapes the ash away to reveal a corpse.

It is a corpse unlike the countless other corpses they’ve already unearthed: it is not broken, bloodied, or armed. It still wears a luxurious black cloak over equally dark armor, forged to perfection to protect all sensitive areas while emitting a menacing dread. The gleam has subdued under a coat of fine ash particles to a muted matte sheen.

The dead skin is pale, almost white, translucent and showing nothing but opaqueness. Its eyes are closed and the expression is almost peaceful. On top of hair the colour of the night sky rests an iron crown. They have found Morgoth.

The likeliness of the statue is remarkable, Olórin is aware thinking absentmindedly. It is surreal to see the enemy up close when he hasn’t seen Morgoth since before Arda was made, when the Music offered but the barest of hints of bodies.

Where he is occupied with Morgoth’s face, the Fëanorians have directed their complete attention to the crown; or rather, the two small white stones set into the crown. Theirs is an expression of reverence, of awe, and of a sort of tired desire.

They are crouched around the crown in a sort of triangle: Olórin leaning over Morgoth’s body, with Maglor and Maedhros on both sides of the head. They all know what will come next; had known a confrontation was inevitable from the moment they first set out together over the newly renamed Firinandë, a name that seems now ironically fitting.

The odds are not in Olórin’s favour. The warriors at his sides look calm, but during the War of Wrath Olórin had observed them and he knows their now infamous unpredictability. For a moment they lock eyes.

Olórin’s hand moves to the sword that hangs at his hip, but doesn’t draw it just yet. He does not wish to instigate violence. Yet, the movement does not go unnoticed.

“I am here on a mission,” he states, without inflection.

The brothers share a quick look, as if deciding something. “So are we,” Maedhros speaks and his voice is hoarse, gravelly. His eyes linger on Olórin’s sword for a short moment before turning back to Morgoth’s crown, the deliberate dismissal of a threat. And Maedhros is right: Olórin will not be the first to start a fight.

Maedhros detaches the shield from his stump in swift, practiced movements, then uses the sharp edge to pry the stones loose from the iron trappings. It takes a few tries and some dents, but eventually the stones are collected in the centre of the slightly dented shield. A weary, satisfied smile creeps over Maedhros’ face while Maglor eyes the stones like they’ll disappear if he so much as blinks.

For a moment that seems to stretch out into a small eternity nobody moves. Then Maglor rises and stretches out his hand, pulling his brother up with him.

Olórin spares a quick look for Morgoth’s body, tranquil and at peace now that his spirit has been removed, before he follows the Fëanorian’s example. The shield with the stones is passed on to Maglor, who handles them with extreme care.

Olórin suddenly notices that neither of the brothers have yet touched the stones with their skin, and that is interesting. In seconds he forms a hypothesis that, if true, drastically improves his chances. At the same time, however, he cannot help but see the exhausted relief on the Fëanorians’ faces, the kind of joy that he’d also seen at the end of the War of Wrath and that doesn’t mean_ We won! _ as much as _ It’s finally over _. And Olórin can understand that, and he feels pity for them. And it is this pity that convinces him to stay his hand, not to draw his sword after all. He has his orders and he has to carry them out, but fighting does not have to be the only option.

So he takes his hand off the hilt of his sword and puts his other hand on Maglor’s shoulder. The latter spins around, ever careful not to drop the stones and a dagger already fixed in his free hand. He stills when he sees Olórin has released the handle of his sword and Maedhros, who has already taken a few steps on the long road back to the encampment, turns around.

“Olórin, what are you doing?” His voice is hard and holds a dangerous edge, but underneath there is resignation, as if he knows what will happen next. Maedhros’ hair shimmers in the yellow gloom like wet blood.

Should Olórin intend to follow precedent, he supposes Maedhros does in fact know his next actions. Both brothers are tense, waiting for Olórin to make his move. Quickly and silently Olórin debates the merits of a direct approach versus a more elaborate formulation.

“I am simply offering a hand.” He nevertheless makes sure to keep his hands far away from any weapon or the stones, nevermind that he doesn’t need metal to enforce his will.

He suspects the Fëanorians know this too, as they share a quick look Olórin finds impossible to read. Maglor purses his lips, which has the effect of turning his already thin face even more gaunt. He looks down, at the stones in the shield, and slowly stretches out his fingers to them. When they are less than an inch away, he stops and retracts them.

Maglor again looks at Maedhros, and this time Olórin knows exactly what is in that gaze. Despair, crushing what little hope was left, and a final cry for help from his big brother. The tears in Maglor’s eyes that track trails through the ash on his cheeks.

Maedhros gives him less than a minute to compose himself, but that is more than enough time for Maglor to remove all traces of emotion from his face as he turns back to Olórin.

“Why do you offer?”

Olórin sighed, the kind of sigh that signals both exasperation and warm fondness. “I wish to avoid more bloodshed.” He waves his hand in a gesture that seemingly encompasses the entirety of the Firinandë. “There has been enough violence and death. Beleriand is devastated and more destruction is on its way. I only wish to preserve what I can.”

“Would you return them to us?”

“I would hand them over to my superiors. What happens after that is not mine to decide.” Olórin could see his answer was not to their satisfaction, but the shield was shallow and the stones were heavy. If they fell off the side into the deep ash, they would fall right through to the ground beneath, and only Olórin would be able to pick it up again. A single misstep and stumble is all it would take.

What happens next is a furious whispered conversation in quenya, that lasts for several minutes. Even though Olórin is quite close, he cannot make out the words; the oppressive air dampens the noise. He waits it out; he has done all he could and the rest is out of his hands.

He sees the looks that are shot his way. He knows that, if he so wishes, he could have taken the stones and metaphorically made a run for it. He could have exerted his power over the corpses hidden beneath the ash and created an entire army with the single purpose of denying the Fëanorians passage. But he doesn’t, because that would not be something he could live with.

The kinslayer conference has apparently ended, for Maedhros turns to face him while Maglor with extreme reluctance hands over the shield. Olórin takes the stones and wraps them in a soft cloth and then hands the shield back. Maedhros reattaches it to his arm.

“Let us go,” he then says, and his tone informs Olórin it is not a suggestion.

He acquiesces and the last surviving sons of Fëanor, their eyes alight with stubborn determination and the tainted light of the Trees, let him pass. Silently they fall in line behind him like two bodyguards and together, a continuation of their strange and unspoken temporary alliance, they return over the ruined Anfauglith.


	2. The Third Age

The distant peaks of Carach Angren block both Barad-Dûr and Orodruin from view. A sudden bright yellow glow erupts in the far distance, and despite the dark thunder clouds hiding the predawn light, for a moment the battlefield is bathed in light. Everything stills as the earth trembles and Gandalf knows, like he knew six and a half thousand years ago, that evil has fallen. He feels it in the way the pressure in the air suddenly lifts and in the way his breaths come easier. It is a complete absence of oppression that he has never experienced since he left the Undying Lands.

But that doesn’t mean there is no work to be done still. The battle around him rages on for a few short moments, until the Enemy’s soldiers too notice something has changed. And it is truly nothing momentous, nothing like when Morgoth fell and the very fabric of the world ripped open. Then, after a moment that was like the calm before the storm, the chaos starts.

Orcs and trolls suddenly become aware of the weak morning light that peeks over the eastern horizon and penetrates the dissolving storm clouds, and they run screaming for the cool shadow of their caves. The barrage of arrows from the Towers of Teeth loosens up until they are notable in their absence and then there are no enemies left to fight anymore.

At first there is confusion amongst the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, the fear of a trap suddenly being sprung. But when no catch appears, the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth turn to elation and disbelief, a mixture that surprises and endears them to Gandalf. They only knew they were marching into the jaws of defeat in a desperate gamble by the rumoured returned King; now the eternal enemy flees before their might.

Gandalf quickly spots Aragorn, at the very forefront of the battlefield, with only Legolas and Prince Imrahil at his side. Nevertheless, apart from a few shallow cuts, all three appear fine to Gandalf’s eyes. Gimli is some distance away and had been trying to reach the trio when Sauron fell. He too seems to have no major injuries. A miracle, really, but Gandalf only sends a quick prayer of gratitude into the west before moving on.

They all congregate in a quick emergency council. Éomer, Elladan and Elrohir are also in attendance. Without preamble, Gandalf outlines what must be done: “Frodo and Sam have fulfilled their quest, but I fear for their lives.” In the distance Mount Doom spews forth bright flares of fire and lava, simultaneously lighting and hiding the land of Mordor, as if to underline the importance of his words. Even over the distance of hundreds of miles its roar of destruction is clearly audible.

“Frodo and Sam are still out there,” Gandalf repeats. “We cannot let their journey and hardship be in vain.”

“We were a Fellowship once,” Gimli speaks up. He eyes around the semicircle they’ve formed around Gandalf before settling on Aragorn and Legolas, who stand side-by-side. “We can be so again.”

Legolas nods. “It will be an honour.”

Aragorn smiles, a tiny thing full of hope. “We will not let them down,” he states softly.

For a short moment Gandalf looks at the three of them. “The Three Hunters, reunited,” he says quietly. “But this time I will join you on this quest, for I sent Frodo and Sam on the road and it is my duty to ensure their return.”

“If they are still alive,” prince Imrahil adds solemnly. “Can you be sure they are still alive?”

Gandalf releases a breath and it almost sounds like a sigh. “No, I cannot. But I cannot permit myself to think otherwise. Even if the final act of their quest was fatal, we owe it to their memory to retrieve their bodies.”

“Even from underneath the fires of Mount Doom?”

“Even then.”

Prince Imrahil coughs. “Then I wish you all the speed in the world, for you will need it.”

Gandalf turns around to see what Imrahil means. In the distance the top of Orodruin has partially collapsed on itself, leading to molten stone bubbling down the slopes. Clouds of smoke and ash are launched into the atmosphere. A little off to the side, the Dark Tower shakes on its foundations.

“Let us go,” Gandalf says quietly. “Follow me.”

He leads them to the largest of the eagles that swept in at the end of the battle and quickly introduces him as Gwaihir the Windlord. The eagles are still picking at the carcasses of the fell mounts of the Nazgûl; as he makes his way through the tangle of unnatural limbs Gandalf is uncomfortably reminded of another battlefield, ages ago, when he was on another quest. That one ended well, from a certain perspective; and Gandalf likes to think he even acquired two friends, even though those bands were torn beyond repair soon after.

Gandalf asks Gwaihir for aid and the bird, even when faced with fresh prey, agrees to help. While Gwaihir goes to select the other eagles, Gandalf turns back to the impromptu gathering. “Aragorn, are you certain you want to join me? You have duties now to your people, who have just fought in the greatest battle of their lifetime. They do need you.”  
Aragorn’s face twists into a frown. “You are right in that I owe them, but I swore to Frodo I would protect him on his quest, till the very end. I shall not turn back on my words now. Prince Imrahil,” and Gandalf sees the latter straighten to his full height, “will you address the men in my place? Let them set up camp on the hills over there, so the wounded can be cared for and the death mourned. I do not think we will be long.”

“I do not suspect so,” Gandalf replies to Aragorn’s questioning look.

“Then I shall join Prince Imrahil in his duties,” Éomer speaks up. “Rohan and Gondor faced this threat together, and together we shall savour our victory.” Softer, he adds, “If Frodo and Sam are anything like Merry and Pippin, I beg you on behalf of my sister, my uncle and myself to return them safely. They do not deserve death.”

“They do not,” Elrohir affirms. “Mithrandir, Estel - go with the blessing of my father. If they are wounded beyond both your capabilities, bring them to us.”

“Be careful, Estel,” Elladan, hair matted with blood, bright red in the light of dawn, adds. “And remember, Arwen commands your return.”

Aragorn smiles and it lights up his face. “I will be back.”

“Then let us go,” Gandalf cuts in and motions to Gwaihir, who has returned with three other eagles in tow. Gimli eyes them uneasily and Legolas shoots him an amused grin. “These are no mere horses, my friend,” he whispers in the dwarf’s ear.

“This is Landroval and Meneldor and Fingaerdir . We shall carry you to the slopes of Mount Doom, where you can look for your friends. We shall remain close by until you call us again to return.”

Gandalf nods his assent. “Very well. Let us leave now.”

Aragorn gently climbs until he is firmly seated on Gwaihir’s back, fingers curled around the feather shafts. Legolas swiftly mounts Landroval while Gimli requires the combined help of Éomer and Elladan to get astride the powerful back of Meneldor, just behind the wings. That leaves Fingaerdir for Gandalf.

As he approaches the great eagle, Gandalf is surprised to see the deep red sheen underlying the auburn feathers, a colour reminiscent of dried blood and almost the exact same shade as the hair of a certain notorious elf Gandalf has once had the dubious honour of meeting.

They appraise each other silently until Fingaerdir lowers himself slightly to allow Gandalf to reach his back and pull himself up. From up close the feathers are almost maroon and they glint where the sunrise catches them.

All four eagles right themselves as Éomer, Prince Imrahil, Elladan and Elrohir take a few steps back. The eagles spread their wings, each one so broad it could have easily matched the Nazgûl’s mounts one for one. A single flap is enough to lift them in the air and they gain altitude and speed in a dizzying tempo. The gate of Morannon is with a few wing strokes far behind them as they race over the valley of Udûn, a study in greys and blacks and shadow. Under the cover of that shadow, in tiny specks of darker greys and lighter blacks, there is movement. Gandalf leans down past Fingaerdir’s strong neck to observe them.

Thousands upon thousands of orcs and other creatures of darkness, desperately searching for a place to hide on the wide plains before the sun hunts them down. They must have spotted the eagles overhead and run for cover. It is chaos down below, Gandalf is certain, although there does seem to be a general trend inwards, through the Carach Angren and into Mordor’s inlands. Towards Frodo and Samwise.

They fly high, but still below the cloud cover. It is cold up here, not helped by the tempest of wind and ash spewed forth in Mount Doom’s death struggle.

Gimli hangs on for dear life while Aragorn and Legolas loosely grip the feathers of Gwaihir and Landroval. Gimli shouts something, but his words are lost in the cold winds.

“He wants to know how much further we shall go,” Fingaerdir suddenly speaks up. His voice is deep and flows with the air through his coppery feathers until it reaches Gandalf. “He does not seem fond of flight, a favour bestowed upon him that is bestowed upon very few.”

“Friend Gimli is simply not used to seeing the world from such a perspective,” Gandalf hastily interjects. Fingaerdir sounded oddly amused at the dwarf’s displeasure and though he knows the great eagle is a servant of Manwë and will fulfill his mission, Gandalf is again uncomfortably reminded of Maedhros. Cynical and rebellious, that is the impression Fingaerdir has left on him. “Friend Gimli should not fly if he is afraid of heights,” Fingaerdir retorts snidely.

By now they’re well above the Gorgoroth plateau and in the distance Orodruin gains size quicker than it loses it as the eruption continues to destroy the mountain. The flanks are almost entirely covered in slow-streaming lava that has formed several pools at the base of the mountain already. Jagged pieces of rock like little black islands are still visible above the fire.

At least no orcs patrol the mountain, Gandalf thinks worriedly. The scattered remains of Sauron’s armies have not yet left Udûn, and the rest of Mordor is suspiciously empty, as if Sauron had concentrated his entire force in the relatively small valley behind the Morannon.

Before the Black Gate the sun has dawned, but here in Mordor the thunderclouds are not so easily dissuaded and the Ash Mountains in the north block out the little natural light. In the comparative darkness, Mount Doom shines like a glittering beacon. It will be nearly impossible for the eagles to land, let alone for the three hunters to get down and embark on a rescue.

They do not make straight for Orodruin, instead following the air currents that lead them more east than south, in an almost straight line to Barad-Dûr.

Another fortress, though not as impenetrable and invincible as Angband had been, turned into a ruin. The tower, consisting of so many smaller ones that could still put every other tower in Middle-Earth to shame, no longer stands proudly overlooking the lands. In pieces, it lies broken on the black ground on a glinting carpet of splinters.

The base of Barad-Dûr still stands, rising less than one hundred feet high. From up in the sky and from a bird’s perspective, Gandalf has a perfect view of the whole scale of destruction. Barad-Dûr has toppled over, and is now in several parts like a puzzle that does not quite fit together anymore. The top still contains an afterimage from the Eye, the only physical mark of Sauron left. His spirit has long since gone.

Again that strange melancholy makes itself known, and Gandalf is helpless against its advent. The world is changing, and this is yet again an irreversible example of the passing of time.

A wasteland, but this time it is not filled with corpses and bodies but with emptiness and shadow, and Gandalf honestly cannot say which is worse. His companions this time are infinitely preferable, at least, and Gandalf takes what solace he can from that fact in the short time until they reach Orodruin. 

* * *

This close to the mountain the air gets hotter until it is scorching and th ash does not fall but instead rises up, and still the eagles continue circling down, carefully avoiding the plume of smoke that steadily rises from the broken crater. Fingaerdir takes tight turns and Gandalf comes close to sliding off, but the great eagle rights himself just in time.

“Don’t you like flying either, Mithrandir?” he asks sardonically, and Gandalf easily imagines a lifted eyebrow or a downturned mouth.

Instead of replying, however, Gandalf squints down to the brightness of the lava, scanning the slopes for any sign of two hobbits. It seems a hopeless task when a few protruding rocks are the only solid ground visible, and even those will not hold out long. Having already circled the entire mountain twice, Gandalf can feel himself start to lose hope, to be replaced by a calm acceptance that leaves no room yet for other emotions. They circle the slopes a final time in lieu of touching down, and Gandalf is already trying to imagine telling Merry and Pippin the news.

It is Legolas who spots them first, earlier even than the eagles with their legendary eyesight. “Down there! On top of the rock shaped like an arrowhead!” He shouts loud enough that the winds, blowing softer now that the great eagles have reduced their speeds, no longer drown out his voice.

“All rocks are shaped like arrowheads,” Gimli murmurs and Gandalf only hears because Meneldor and Fingaerdir fly almost wing to wing. Nonetheless Gandalf immediately sees the rock Legolas referred to, and not long after both Aragorn and Gimli do too. Indeed, on the uneven black surface, barely out of reach from the lava, two small figures are not so much huddled together as collapsed against each other.

Without further prompting Fingaerdir dives down until he suddenly pulls up. They are now very close to the two unmoving figures. Gandalf fears the worst, but from the back of Fingaerdir, still airborne, he cannot make sure. Gwaihir performs a slow and dangerous flyby of the rock and Aragorn jumps down, landing neatly. He scrambles over to Frodo and Sam, and after a few tense moments of silence he proclaims both of them alive.

Gandalf lets out a breath and again feels a weight lift off his shoulders. Now that they’ve found the hobbits, they need to transport them back. The easiest way would be for the eagles to carry them in their claws, but Aragorn cautions against that mode of transport. “It could potentially destabilize their condition,” he says, the concern of a healer colouring his voice. “It would be better to keep them upright, with their heads above their bodies.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Gimli grumbles. “Let’s hoist them up and hold them tight and get out of here.”

“I wish it were that easy, Gimli,” Aragorn replies as he carefully lifts Sam. “But we have to be very careful moving them. Does anyone have any rope?”

“Sam has,” Legolas says suddenly. “The lady of Lothlórien gave him a rope.”

After a quick search Aragorn finds the rope tied around Sam’s clothes as a makeshift belt. “Amazing how, when everything else has been left behind, Sam still hung onto this,” he says softly. With nifty fingers Aragorn ties the rope around Sam’s body and throws the other end towards Legolas, who catches it while still seated on Landroval as the latter flies as close as possible without touching the steady river of lava cascading down the mountain slope.

With slow, coordinated movements Sam is pulled up until eventually he is seated on Landroval, pressed against Legolas’ chest and held steady there. Legolas throws the rope down again before Landroval immediately wings it and races back over Golgoroth and Udûn, to the Morannon and the camp for medical attention.

Then it is Frodo’s turn. His condition is worse than Sam’s and requires therefore even more delicate handling. Gandalf and Fingaerdir remain close by, but Aragorn manages to get Frodo tied up by himself.

“Gimli, are you ready?” Aragorn calls out, and Gimli nods frantically in response as Mount Doom roars again. The lava level rises steadily and there’s only a little space left for Aragorn to move. Aragorn throws the rope again, but Gimli misses the catch. A second try, and a sudden gust of ash in Gimli’s face makes him miss again. The rope flails over, this time the end falls into flames. Aragorn quickly douses them with his boot, but looks desperate.

“Aragorn!” Gandalf calls urgently. “I shall take Frodo. Throw the rope to me!”

Aragorn does, and though again the rope seems to miss, Fingaerdir shifts subtly so that Gandalf’s fingers touch the woven strands and he catches it. Aragorn yanks at it a few times, and when he is satisfied it will hold, he signals Gandalf to start pulling while he assists Frodo from below.

Without comment Fingaerdir floats closer, almost touching the flame, until Frodo is safely on his back in Gandalf’s arms. He hauls the rest of the rope in as Aragorn jumps up onto Gwaihir’s back as he performs another flyby.

Frodo is cold in Gandalf’s arms and too thin. His ribs poke out underneath the torn shirt and his neck is raw as if from a chain. But worst of all is his finger, still bleeding heavily through the quick makeshift bandage Aragorn had applied together with an impromptu tourniquet. Gandalf tightens it and is rewarded with a reduction of blood loss.

Meanwhile Fingaerdir is making speed, flying back in a straight line to the camp, following air currents that rise high above the mountains surrounding Mordor as Orodruin behind them grows smaller. It is cold up here, but there is no shadow and no ash and the morning sunlight turns everything bright golden. Not the sickly yellow of Orodruin’s fire, but a pure colour that shines with promise and new life. A new hope for Middle-Earth.

Under that light Fingaerdir’s plumage changes from dried blood to polished copper with gold ores running through and the effect is stunning. With nothing else to do but hold Frodo close and wait until they arrive at their destination, Gandalf lets his free hand wander through the feathers, that are rougher than he expects.

“Thank you for your help, Fingaerdir,” Gandalf says finally when they start a gentle descend. “Frodo would not have made it out alive without your intervention.”

“Such fire is painful,” Fingaerdir answers shortly. “I would not wish it on anyone if it is in my power to prevent it.”

Gandalf lets these words sink in, a little bit. “Thank you anyway,” he says, and keeps silent. He remembers two others who set out on a quest that should have cost them their life, and in the end did take what was left of them. He remembers back in the camp, how Maedhros and Maglor never left his side when he held the stones. When he’d surrendered them to Eönwë, they hadn’t stopped guarding the chest the stones had been stored in for even a moment. Their faces had been grim and dark and desperate, as if they knew already this mission would be their end. Gandalf had not been surprised when the next day they vanished without a trace and took the stones with them. He’d only heard rumours regarding their final fate.

If those rumours had been true, then it answers one question while it raises many others. But Gandalf thinks the famous great eagle eyesight has had something to do with it. If something has been lost, the sky is the best place to start looking.


End file.
